


Rainy Night Thoughts

by DaisyFloyd



Series: Pink Floyd Collection [2]
Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Adorable, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Rain, Songwriting, Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFloyd/pseuds/DaisyFloyd
Summary: London is cold, under a storm's embrace. David walks back home.A simple act of kindness for a complex kind of stranger.





	Rainy Night Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Please note that:  
> \- This work is fictional.  
> \- English is not my first language.  
> \- I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone mentioned in this story.

David walked, carrying his guitar with his right hand. The case in which it was contained was impermeable and perfectly designed to hold his beloved Stratocaster inside, providing security to the instrument. It certainly needed that protection to face the unfortunate weather conditions that had gotten David’s gig in Hyde Park cancelled. The temperature had dramatically dropped in just a matter of minutes, and a strong and equally cold wind escorted it as its honorary companion. Nobody had predicted or suspected that the rather warm and pleasurable day would be followed by another typical English night, not even the meteorologists who showed up on both the television and radio and appeared to be so fond of the technology they had to anticipate the nature’s humour for the next days. They had pathetically failed once again when facing the good old Britain, who always had tricks under her sleeve and was as unpredictable as an inspired artist.

David was wearing a long black coat that almost touched the floor, and made him look like a serious businessman, or maybe an alternative to the standard private detective. He also had a long scarf tangled around his neck, a clean white one that wasn’t really fashionable and wouldn’t be recommended or used by contemporary designers in search of the appearance-wise perfection. His shoes were probably going to be ruined or at least damaged by the rain that now made a mess out of David’s light brown hair, which had been combed and untangled just a few hours ago, when he thought he was going to spend the night showing his latest riffs to a fairly excited audience full of rock enthusiasts. Now, both his plans and his hair were altered by the cold water, which fell over London in a light but certainly chilling rain. The water drops were so tiny they seemed to float, descending slowly from their natal clouds that converted the sky in a dark grey blur. He glanced up to regard the firmament with more detail. His ocean blue eyes were searching for any sign of a hidden star, shining through the clouds, but not even the moon was visible. It looked like the greyness had taken everything away, leaving David with a boring sight to see.

He was just a few streets away from his warm and cosy home. He couldn’t wait to get a grip of his favourite blanket, sit in front of the window in his bedroom, and read his night away as his sleepiness slowly started to gain terrain to eventually drag him into the world of his dreams. The final chapter of the latest book he had been exploring had to be a good one, a good story deserved a good finale. The night was a bit too cold for David’s taste. He preferred the sunny afternoons during spring, he never liked winter as much. His scarf and long coat weren’t enough to counteract the wind and humidity that filled the air. He thought that anyone could easily get hypothermia if they didn’t have the right amount of clothes, or a way to keep themselves warm until the rain had stopped and the temperature had rose at least fifteen degrees Celsius.

If it weren’t because of the streetlights, the city would have been submitted in a black-pitched silence. Not a soul was to be seen, and the night accentuated the desolation of the roads. Around the lanterns a golden halo glowed, remembering David of his childhood days. He had seen similar sceneries plenty of times before, really pretty sights to be honest, while he lived in Cambridge with his parents. When he was a little child, he loved to watch the rain fall as his father told him stories about miniature fairies living inside the streetlights, whose magic turned the lights on when the dark tried to win the battle over the town’s control. For a long time, he truly believed those magical beings protected and defended it from those obscure monsters the darkness tried to sneak into Cambridge. David missed his early days now that they were long gone, along with the sweet innocence that filled them and made them special. He also missed his parents, and he hadn’t seen them in almost two months. Maybe he could go back to Cambridge for a season, and ask his dad if he remembered the streetlight fairies.

David heard thunder and it sounded dangerously close, like if he was in the middle of the storm that was going to occur after the drizzle rain transformed into a downpour. He decided it was a good idea to stop getting lost in his memories, and focus on getting home soon. He tightened his grip around the case’s handle, and avoided stepping on the pools of water that filled the entire street. He knew this path by heart, and didn’t need to look at the names of the roads to know where he was. If he had been a stranger in the city, he would have had a hard time reading the signs that were worn out by the unmerciful passing of time. He knew he had to continue for two hundred meters or so, pass in front of the little attempt of a park that the neighbourhood had, and turn to his left to finally arrive at his destination.

Nothing seemed particular or special about the park that night. It was so tiny David was pretty sure it couldn’t be called a park at all, as it was just a handful of trees, a fountain, some games for the children and four benches distributed in a rather weird manner. One of them was way at the back, and during the sunny days it was covered by one of the tree’s shadow. The other was too far away from the path that cut through the short green grass, so nobody chose that bench to sit on. The only one that did was an old man who liked to read the newspaper while sitting there every morning. The third one was broken and it wasn’t going to be fixed any time soon, as nobody really seemed to care about it. The fourth one was the closest to the fountain, located at the centre of the tiny park. The fountain wasn’t outstanding or pretentious, it seemed way too basic for David’s personal preferences and decorative tastes. Despite the precarious amount of light and the short instant he spent looking at the park, David was able to see that one of the benches, the fourth one to be more precise, wasn’t empty.

He stopped his fast pace to stand in the middle of the sidewalk. He had to look for a second time just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things that weren’t there, that he wasn’t hallucinating, and that his mind wasn’t playing strange games with him in some kind of sudden evaluation of his sanity. Much to his surprise, the person sitting there was pretty real, and judging by what the guitarist could see under the dim light, the park’s visitor was a young man. He seemed to be deep in his thoughts, not really caring about the weather or the wind that moved his shoulder-length dark hair. He had a side view of the bench and the person sitting on it. He was looking down at something, and that caught David’s curiosity.

The guitarist hesitated for a while, but then decided to approach the stranger and ask him if he was in need of some help. Maybe he was a lost tourist caught by surprise by the rain, or a confused lad who had just moved into the city and would make good use of some indications. Or perhaps he was a broken-hearted guy, who would appreciate to have someone to talk to for a minute of two, and needed anybody to remember him that not everything was lost. The latter option seemed the most logical and suiting for this situation, or so thought David. Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to just get closer and offer him a hand, and if David found himself in that lad’s situation he would very much like to have someone do exactly the same for him. Sometimes, you just need someone’s kind words to get on your feet again.

David stepped on the path that crossed the park and headed towards the bench in front of the fountain, and as he got closer, he could get to see the stranger a bit better. He was still looking down, so David couldn’t see his face under his dark hair falling over it. However, he did notice the man’s slender arms and legs and his considerable height. The clothes he was wearing weren’t enough to keep his body warm in the chilling’s night weather, and he was trembling slightly. He was using a white satin shirt, light brown trousers with suspenders in the same colour, and black shoes. A dark piece of clothing that appeared to be a jacket rested over his shoulders, and David wondered why he wasn’t wearing it. A better question to ask himself would be why that guy was there in the first place, rather than to criticise his choice of putting on his jacket or not. David could also see a little black book being held by the stranger. He was holding it with both hands, and the guitarist could deduce he was staring at its cover, and that was the reason why his dark hair fell over his face and prevented David from seeing it.

He didn’t notice David, who was now standing in front of him until he heard his smooth and gentle voice greet him and ask a question that in its simplicity was an open window to see how David was like as a person. Not many people would bother to even think about inquiring if a stranger was okay, they didn’t care at all. They probably judged him and assumed he was just stupid and dragged by his bad life choices.  What other reason could a man have to just throw everything away and sit in the middle of a rainy night with just a book? David didn’t like to call himself exceptionally kind or well-educated, but he certainly was. It reflected on the smallest of his actions, like the one he had proceeded to execute at the moment.

“Good evening. Is everything alright?”

The calmness that he showed in that melodic baritone made the stranger look up, finally revealing his face that was now a matter of the guitarist’s interest and curiosity.

David could swear he had never been so surprised by a simple glance before, not a single time in his life. The stranger was young, most likely in his twenties as David himself was, and he owned a kind of beauty the guitarist had never witnessed until that Saturday night. He had a long nose that served as the base of construction for the rest of his factions, and it was maybe a little too lengthy for the normal frame of what being handsome was like. His lips weren’t thin and seemed to be soft to the touch, and they somehow matched with his nose and made an interesting combination. His skin was pale as could be, to be whiter was probably impossible. His hair, now that David could look at it better, was dark brown and generally straight, but possessed some undulations mostly on his bangs. His eyes added to the overall unusualness of this man’s charm. Behind a pair of round glasses, his green irises tried to hide his dreadful sorrow, but failed to do so. David had never seen eyes so expressive, so profound and mesmerizing, and even when showing such a sad emotion, so astonishingly _beautiful_.

Just when David thought that being more gorgeous wasn’t physically plausible, the stranger smiled weakly. It wasn’t a true smile, just a toothless expression that was probably only being made to show the guitarist a little appreciation for worrying about his well-being even though they had never crossed paths before. However, that didn’t make it any less wonderful. The way his cheeks were pulled up to curve his lips slightly, how his eyes closed a bit while searching for David’s, everything about it was the definition of perfection.

“Do I really look that bad?”

As the rain didn’t make that much of a noise, falling almost soundlessly to the ground, and the thunder had calmed down, David was able to hear his voice clearly. He couldn’t classify it in a range by hearing it, and it sounded quite detuned. It gave away the same truth his eyes expressed: he was in pain, a deep pain that was tearing his soul apart in a slow and lasting torture. David didn’t know how to continue his conversation, and frankly wasn’t prepared to do it. If their exchange of words had a beginning that meant it also was going to have an end, and the musician didn’t want their interaction to finish just yet. He wanted to admire the uncommon beauty for just a few more minutes, he didn’t want that pleasant sight to be taken away. He wasn’t sure if he was going to get a chance to see this man ever again, so he wanted their brief encounter to last as long as possible.

“It’s rather unusual to find someone here this late, especially when it rains like it does now.”

David repeated his own response in his mind, and analysed it better. He hoped he hadn’t sounded mean or disrespectful. It wasn’t his intention, and he wished he had said something else, something that left less room for a sarcastic interpretation. The stranger maintained his smile, so David assumed he hadn’t taken offense. He looked down at his book again, and David did the same. Then, the musician noticed that the black surface had a few words written in golden letters. One of the man’s fingers was covering them partially, but he could distinguish that one of those words was a first name.

_Roger_

It was probably one of Britain’s most common names, nothing outstanding. However, this stranger had just given that simple combination of five letters a whole new meaning.

David realized how pretty it truly sounded _. Roger_. Starting with a distinguishable English articulation. Continuing with an elegant sound, a hint of its French origin, accentuating the name’s middle and raising the tongue to touch the palate when being pronounced. Lastly, in the British way of intonating it, dropping the final letter and leaving the word somewhat unfinished. That simple detail made it interesting in a way. So many men had been given that name when they were born, but this stranger seemed to honour it in a way David was sure no one else could do it in the past, and probably couldn’t do it in the future.

 _What the hell is wrong with me?_ David thought, surprised by his own analysis over such a simple, trivial subject. _It’s just a mad lad sitting here because he has nothing better to do, don’t overthink it. He’s probably drunk or high, or both. And yes, he’s a good looking guy, weirdly enough. How does he pull off that nose? Anyway, he’s most likely into women, like every regular man out there. This is not the best moment to think stupid things. So I should stop it, for fuck’s sake, go back home and-_

“Thank you for your concern.”

 _Roger_ responded in a mutter, quietly, and with a truly grateful undertone. It was the nicest anybody had been to him in the past weeks, so it was truly heart-warming and surprising to see that someone cared enough to ask him, even if it was a just a random guy who happened to be passing by. He felt quite pathetic for feeling moved with a little demonstration of courtesy by some polite lad, for feeling almost overwhelmed by it, and for smiling so stupidly when thanking him. Maybe under his own judgement he seemed ridiculous, but for David, he was still the most perfect human being he had ever met.

He locked his eyes on the book again, not wishing to make eye contact with David for a second time. It had intimidated him, as irrational as it sounded, and the guitarist could tell as it showed clearly. Roger wasn’t accustomed to look at people in the eyes, and in this occasion he had been taken by surprise. He didn’t expect to come across such a handsome man that night, to hear the smoothest voice he had ever had the opportunity to listen to, and to wish he wasn’t so horribly awkward when it came to socialising. On top of all that, he was now in such a vulnerable and breakable state, standing at the edge of the cliff. He was giving a terrible first impression to this man, failing again, like in everything he did.

David sat down at the other end of the bench and placed his guitar, still inside its case, on the wet wood that formed the simple but comfortable seating. It was the only thing between him and Roger, aside from the meter of empty space. He didn’t have a good reason to do it, he could just ignore this stranger’s presence and go home, but he wanted to stay. He didn’t have any plans for the night, and maybe he could get something out of hearing what this guy had to say. It looked like this lad needed someone to talk to and didn’t have anyone to do so, so why wouldn’t David like to be remembered by this stranger as that one guy who made his night at least a little less depressing?

“What’s on your mind tonight?”

Roger was once again surprised that this stranger cared enough to ask. He still held his little black book. David wondered if whatever that was written there was the cause of this man’s sorrow, which he didn’t seem to be able to hide at the other side of his round glasses and under his dark long hair. He could be a novelist, disappointed with the outcome of his latest creation or the judgement of his relatives and friends. Maybe the pages were filled with photos rather than words, and going through them had made him enter this state of profound sadness. While David was distracted trying to find the reason of that pain without asking the owner of it, Roger took a moment to contemplate his blue eyes, and wondered if they were two pieces of the sky that had been taken away from it during a summer afternoon.

He looked away the moment David noticed his staring. They stayed in silence for a minute or two, while Roger evaluated the possibility of remaining silent until the man sitting at the other end of the bench got bored and decided to leave. Trembling, both from the cold water falling over his body and the strong emotions he was feeling, he asked a question with a very shy tone.

“Do you remember Vera Lynn?”

David did remember her. She was a great singer, _the forces’ sweetheart_ , and her voice had accompanied thousands of soldiers through the horrific journey of the Second World War. The guitarist only knew one song by her, but it was probably her most iconic one. She was that one person everyone in Britain had heard of, and the general public adored her. She gave hope to many wives and children, whose spouses and fathers had to put on a uniform and say goodbye. David was fortunate his dad was a conscious objector, who had exchanged charging guns for doing scientific research and marrying a beautiful English lady, the woman who would become David’s mother.

It was a weird question to ask, and for David, it came out of nowhere. He decided to focus on answering it instead of trying to deduce why it had been asked in the first place. Roger continued sheepishly glancing at him and waiting for a response. He expected David to get up and walk away, like everyone in Roger’s life was doing at the moment, but he got a proper reply instead. Looking at the dark grey sky, seeing the raindrops slowly descending around them, the guitarist sang his response in his naturally soothing voice.

“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…”

Roger sighed in accomplishment, satisfaction, like he felt a little less crazy by not being the only one who recalled that song to perfection. He felt an impulse to trust the song, to believe in its message, to not lose hope. He smiled with clear disappointment reflected on his weak grin. Usually he was way too reserved to tell his story, but this man gave him a feeling of confidence, of security, like he could trust him with anything. Apart from that, he was a stranger, so he didn’t have to keep appearances and try to give him the best impression. He had already failed in that anyway. He looked up to the sky, and avoiding eye contact, continued their late night conversation.

“When I was a kid, I used to go to a little park like this one. It was two streets away from my house, in Cambridge.”

David listened with attention. He tried to recall all the little parks he had been to in his natal city, maybe they had been to the same one when they were younger. He wasn’t sure, but they could have played together twenty years ago and forgotten about it entirely. David thought it was highly unlikely, because he wouldn’t forget such a weirdly attractive looking guy, with those hypnotizing eyes and shy smile he was sure he possessed since he was an infant.

“I remember seeing so many kids with their fathers, laughing and making memories together.” Roger continued, with the same grin he had been holding on to during the entire conversation. His way of talking resembled that of an old man, telling fairy tales to his grandson. “Chasing each other, playing hide-and-seek, or collecting flowers to bring them home and gift them to their mothers.”

David was one of those children. He could close his eyes and see the vase on the table, always being filled with new fresh flowers his dad and him took from the many bushes that grew around the park. Sylvia loved daisies, so they selected them especially for her. She would say thank you to David when he gave her the flowers, being held in his little hands, and kiss his forehead with her soft red lips.

The guitarist noticed, even under the rain, how Roger’s eyes shone with tears. David was never particularly good at comforting people, and worried about not being able to give Roger the help he needed. He continued looking at the sky to avoid David’s glance, giving the guitarist an opportunity to watch his green irises sparkle without being noticed. Roger’s voice was now low and broken, but he managed to mutter two sentences.

“Still to this day, I wonder how that would feel like. To play until tea-time, to enjoy a moment with my dad.”

 _I’m a horrible person_. David looked down for an instant, regretting his previous assumptions about Roger, and almost apologising out loud even though he didn’t know about what David had thought about him during the first minutes of their conversation. _How could I judge him like that? He’s not drunk or high, he’s just someone who needs empathy, compassion. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain he must be going through..._

A father is one of those people who any kid would take for granted, and the raw emotion in Roger’s words made David feel like a helpless kid again. He realized how fortunate he was to have both his parents still with him, and to have a great childhood behind him, full with memorable moments and bed-time stories. David couldn’t conceive his early years without his father. He meant so much to him, and the guitarist wished he said that to him more often.

Roger scratched the surface of his little black book, in nervousness. He wanted to know what the stranger sitting next to him thought about him, if he found Roger to be a freak, just like everyone else seemed to. Regrets of telling the cause of his suffering began to surface, as his eyes were still locked on the book. His mother always said that it was better to be quiet about it. She was always right, and Roger was always wrong. Telling this stranger about his personal concerns wasn’t going to help him heal. He wasn’t going to heal, no matter how he tried. He _couldn’t._ He would eventually get consumed by his painful night thoughts, and _drown_ in them.

“How was he like?”

David’s question gave Roger a reason to keep on smiling, ignoring the tears that wanted to come out. He needed someone to hear so badly, so _desperately_ , and he never expected a complete stranger to be the one to fill that empty space in his life. He didn’t want his mother or anyone to worry, so he didn’t discuss much about his father’s absence and as he grew up, he stopped asking that same question that now David pronounced with sincere interest.

When he was a little kid, he would hear his mother for hours as she told him about his father. Roger knew his dad’s name was Eric.

_Eric Fletcher Waters._

“Mother says he was a kind, honest man.”

She had contrasting feelings about him, now that he was gone. On the one hand, she loved and respected him. He was the father of her children, her husband, and her life companion while he was alive. She never married again, and was sure that she would never find anyone else even remotely similar to him, capable of making her feel true love. But there was that underlying resentment.

Sometimes, she was angry. She would say Eric was careless and cruel for leaving her with two children to fight in the war that would end up permanently taking him away from his family. Roger could understand where she was coming from, but he didn’t think his father was to blame. The pigs that sent him to war were the ones they should be resenting, not his disappeared father.

“She says he loved me so much.” Roger said, with nostalgia for those times he couldn’t recall from his own memory. “I was his little boy, his little baby.”

The first time Eric saw Roger, he held him in his arms and smiled, with tears streaming down his face, saying how beautiful he was. Roger didn’t remember it, because he was just five months old when Eric left. His wife insisted he should stay, but it wasn’t an option. He kissed her goodbye, and did the same with his children. With his uniform and a promise to return, he waved while he walked away.

They never found his body. There wasn’t a grave for Roger to go and leave flowers, so Roger thought there was a chance he was still alive. When he was little, he used to sit with his back against the front door and look around, waiting for his father to come home. Deep inside, he was certain that Eric would, but the flame of his hope had been slowly dying for a long time, and the rain was threatening to make it disappear once and for all.

“I’m still waiting for that sunny day Vera promised.”

David felt sorry, but he knew that his pity was useless.

“You can either keep on waiting, or try and see through the clouds.”

It was simple and concise. It was a wise answer. This stranger might be right.

Roger had been so patiently waiting for the tragedy to end, he didn’t realize that he was wasting his life waiting to live. He just wanted all his dilemmas and insecurities to go away, and then, only _then_ , start to think about being happy. The past had chained him down and forced him to ignore the present, and the future wasn’t even present in his internal conversation.

The truth was, the tragedy was never going to end. He might as well try to find some joy between his miseries.

The writer looked at David. He wanted to mutter a thankful phrase, but he just stared slightly smiling.

“What’s that book about?”

“My poems.”

He instantly regretted adding an indicative of property before the subject of his sentence. It would have been okay to leave it like he just wrote down poems from authors he found interesting, like his book was just a big compilation of wise words written by cultured men. But no, he had to acknowledge that he was the weird one, sitting at the back of his 31-student class, writing his emotions and all that other sentimental crap instead of focusing in getting his degree. He blushed instantly, and the redness of his cheeks was subtle but noticeable. Fortunately for him, David didn’t comment on it or even eluded the fact that Roger was behaving like a teenager interacting with his romantic interest he had been fantasising about for much too long.

Roger’s little black book was a part of himself. Opening it was forbidden for anyone who even thought about violating his privacy, and he went out of his way to keep it hidden from the general public. Nobody who spent their days and nights stripping their soul into the white pages would like the indecent and curious to read the most profound and secret corners of their being. Roger had been the target of so many harassers during his early years because of that little black book, but he wasn’t planning to let it go any time soon. Writing was almost therapeutic for him, relieving. He couldn’t fly, but when he wrote, he felt like he could do anything. He could touch the sky, reach his dreams. It made him feel somewhat _complete_ , like he was doing the right thing converting all the suffering into little pieces of art.

Many failed to recognise his writings as art. Roger would never forget his harassers at primary school. They would always try to destroy his book, to get rid of the refuge he had built inside it. They completely despised Roger for no particular reason other than him being the quiet kid, and that made the young laddie develop a strong resentment towards them, towards society, and towards _himself_. What had he done wrong to upset them like that? Did he deserve to get beaten up in the boy’s bathroom and almost get his nose broken? Did he deserve to spit blood after one of their so called ‘ _moments of fun’_? Did he deserve to cry himself to sleep the night after? Hadn’t he suffered enough?

David flipped the first few pages of the little black book. Roger wasn’t certain of the reason why he let him have a look through its contents, but the moment he extended his hand, he couldn’t help but place the book in it for him to see. If this stranger cared enough to still be there with him, he could at the very least let him read a few of his literary creations.

_All in all is just another brick in The Wall._

He wondered why Roger capitalised the last two words. His handwriting was striking too, rebellious and fancy at the same time. He pressed the pen a lot, and liked to leave long lines with thin ends when writing certain letters. It was a little window into what Roger was feeling the moment he decided to translate his thoughts from abstract ideas into the concreteness of a manuscript.

There were lots and lots of poems, with various different dates and distinct concepts. There was something so captivating in them, they were complex but understandable. David had never read anything like them before, and he wondered what would happen if he put _music_ to those poems. They looked like perfect lyrics for some rock experiments.

All of them were signed.

_Roger Waters_

_It is a pretty name, indeed._ David thought. _Waters, just like the rain that’s falling over our heads, or the tears he's trying to hide. Suits him well._

“You’re incredibly talented.”

Roger involuntarily giggled. He hardly ever heard any compliments about his writings, mostly because he didn’t let the world see them, so it was unusual and flattering to hear them. He was even more awkward about it because those words came from this mysterious man, who judging by the guitar he carried with him was a musician, probably a talented person himself. Being a complete stranger, he had no reason to lie, so his opinion was as honest as it could. He truly found Roger to be a talented writer, and this made Roger’s heart pound inside his chest with the emotion of a child receiving a desired and long-wished gift.

“That’s really nice of you to say. Cheers.”

David had no idea what time it was already, but the rain had stopped. He glanced up. The clouds were dissipating slowly, and little patches of the sky were already visible. Stars could be seen in the other side, with weak glows, a very pretty scenery. Just like Roger’s day, obscured by clouds, but now slowly regaining its natural shine.

Roger was trying to memorise his face to never forget it, but he was _certain_ he wouldn’t be able to forget him, not even if he tried. _If angels exist, he’s one._

The guitarist closed the little black book, and handed it to its owner.

“If you ask me, I think your father is proud.”

That had to be the sweetest thing someone said to Roger in his entire life. He wanted, _desperately_ needed to make his father proud, wherever he was. Tears threatened to come out again, making his green eyes shine. But for the first time in so long, they weren’t sad tears. It felt nothing like sadness, it felt like happiness. It felt like he was finally doing things _right_ , like he was succeeding for once. David was, in that moment, the living proof that Roger’s art _was_ worthy.

David stood up, it was about time to leave. The rain had stopped and the wind was calm, not as cold as it had been a couple hours ago. However, the guitarist felt that he needed to protect Roger somehow. He looked a bit confused, taken by surprise when David took off his scarf and put it around his neck.

“I suggest you go back home. You’re trembling.”

And Roger’s heart melted. He felt a sudden need to hug him, but he didn’t dare to get up from the bench. Instead, he looked up in complete admiration, with a silly smile. He could just mutter an attempt of a thankful answer. He watched David stand up and take his guitar, and just before he could say goodbye and disappear into the night again, Roger overcame his shyness and asked.

“May I know your name?”

“David. And you’re Roger, I suppose.”

 _David. Don’t forget it._ The writer nodded.

David shook his hand, and added a request.

“If you ever need a guitarist, consider me.”

Roger smiled, and replied with something similar, now confident of his ability to write. He opened his book to take one page and hand it to the stranger. Giving him one piece of his art was the least he could do.

“If you ever need a lyricist, consider me.”

Seeing David walking away made Roger reencounter his will to get up and go back home. Touching the white scarf, he knew he would treasure it for the rest of his life as the little remembrance that confirmed someone out there did want him to be happy, that someone out there did care for his well-being. _David_. Although he was a complete stranger, Roger felt he owed him something.

He would try and see through the clouds, for him. For the stranger that had made his night less depressing.

And while he held his little black book, now with one page less, inside his head there sounded the same verse again and again.

_We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when..._

_…but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day._

**Author's Note:**

> It's awfully considerate of you to read my things.
> 
> Well, I don't even know. This one has been between my drafts for a long time. I'm stepping out of my comfort zone, as little stories with more than three thousand words are way too much for me. I'm used to the really short ones. However, I kind of like how it turned out, so I thought I would post it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Lots of love.


End file.
